Don't Kiss the Bride

“I keep some food and water in here, and I shower at school every day, after gym class, or at a truck stop. I haven’t heard from my father since he left a few years ago. And my mom… she just sits out there. She does customer service phone calls from home for work. But it’s like she’s forgotten I’m here. She doesn’t talk to me. I don’t go out there anymore, so I never see her. I just send her text messages. Sometimes she replies. I have to keep the door locked so she can’t get in and pile stuff in here. I use the window because I can’t get to the door.”

“What the ever-lovin’ fuck,” he growls when I finish.

Wincing, I say, “I’ve learned to live with it until I can hopefully move out.”

He stands up abruptly and points to the door. “Open it,” he says. “Open that door right now and let me see.”

My heart pounds. This is my worst nightmare. I don’t want him to see—or smell—the rest of the house. “Jude, I—”

“Open it. Now,” he says, his chest heaving up and down.

I stand and move to the door. My hand shakes as I reach for the locks. “You can’t say anything to my mom, Jude. She’s sick. Please don’t—”

“I’m not going to say anything. Just let me see what’s on the other side of this door.”

My mom is most likely too engrossed in the television to realize anyone is in the house.

The pain in my chest spreads up to my throat and collarbone as I slide the deadbolts and swing the door open. Jude recoils, his nose crinkling from the foul smell. I’m sure whatever friendship I’ve forged with him will be over by the time he leaves tonight. Nobody wants to be friends with someone living in such filth.

He lets out a low whistle as he ventures just a foot outside my door—as far as he can get unless he attempts to squeeze his body through the narrow path of piles that are taller than him. I grab his arm and pull him back inside my room, shutting the door quickly and relocking it.

“Happy now? You’ve seen the house of horrors.”

“Do you know what kind of fire hazard that is? Not to mention, endangering a child—”

“I’m eighteen,” I interject.

“You weren’t a few months ago. This is fucked up.” He paces the length of my room, glancing every few seconds at the bedroom door.

“Do you want to sit in the backyard and talk?” I offer after watching him for a few seconds. I’m sure he’s probably really wanting a cigarette right now.

He nods rapidly. “Yeah, I need some air.”

Even though I’ve climbed out the window myself hundreds of times, he holds his hands out to help me once he’s on the ground. Chivalry isn’t dead with this guy. Silently, we walk in the dark to the back of the house and sit on an old, rusty bistro set that's been here for years. Actually, I sit. Jude lights up a cigarette and stares up at the sky.

His concern for me is sweet, but unexpected. I’m not sure what to do with this kind of care from someone. Should I be grateful, or suspicious?

How do we ever know if we can truly trust someone?

“You really shouldn’t be living like this, Skylar. It’s unhealthy in about twenty fucking ways.”

“I know that. But this is all I’ve got. My options are limited. I’m doing my best to save money so I can get the hell out of here. That’s why I was so excited about doing more for Rebecca. I’m hoping I can work for her full time after I graduate.”

“Where’s your father?” He asks this facing the tree with the broken swing, which somehow seems very fitting.

“He lived in that camper out front until he couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

He spins around to stare at me. “He left you here to live like this?”

My non-answer is answer enough.

He drops his cigarette on the ground, smashes it with his boot, then sits in the chair on the other side of the lopsided table.

“Tell me what happened in the hospital. Did you have more tests? You okay?

I finger a leaf stem that’s stuck in the filigree edge of the table.

“Yes. I’ve had some health issues since I was young, but I’ve never been able to take the meds or see the doctor for follow-ups. I guess it’s all gotten worse.”

“Why haven’t you been taking your meds?”

“We don’t have health insurance and my mother never believed it was serious. I was held back because I was out of school so much when I was younger. If I didn’t feel well, she just sent me to bed. She stopped taking me to the doctor.”

“Un-fucking-real,” he says, shaking his head.

“My mom’s just…” I grapple for a nice word. “Not right in the head. I’ve learned not to rock the boat. I take care of myself.”